you're the only thing I know like the back of my hand
by irite
Summary: They fell into step together behind Captain America, and it was like they'd never been apart. Drabble.


**My beta, dysprositos, is the best. This drabble was accompanied with a lot of whining, but she was my superhero.**

**The title is a quote from Taylor Swift and Colbie Caillat's "Breathe." I don't own it.**

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They fell into step together behind Captain America, and it was like they'd never been apart. Like he'd never been sent to that boring scientist-babysitting assignment in the ass-end of nowhere, like she hadn't been sent to Russia on an undercover op with every intention of blowing her cover for information.

Clint and Natasha had always been in sync, ever since he'd put his bow down and she hadn't killed him for showing this weakness, but their skill sets were so different that SHIELD rarely sent them on the same missions.

And even if they were, they were reduced to bantering over comms because he was a sniper and she was a spy, the one who went in and infiltrated.

But they saw each other as often as they could outside of missions, around base, and they'd developed a comfortable system of nonverbal communication before they were relaxed enough to open up around the other.

They learned each other's tells quickly, both trained to _watch_ others, although for different reasons. His job _was_ watching and hers was staying safe around potentially-dangerous individuals. This led to them rapidly developing the ability to read the other's body language.

And besides that, they had been trained on a similar system of hand signals, which they often adapted (Clint usually initiated) during boring meetings. He'd roll his eyes, she'd tell him to shut up, she was listening, he'd tell her that this meeting was given every four months and she didn't have to pay attention, look, there's Moss sneaking his phone under the table. And she'd give in, and they'd snark back and forth, all without saying a word or changing their facial expressions too much.

But it took a night of mutual terrible nightmares for them to really open up to each other, though, a night so bad that it prompted them to leave their quarters to go into a common area.

Seeking comfort from others wasn't what they were after. All they wanted was a well lit space where they could put their back in a corner and watch other people until they felt safe again, a hand on their weapon of choice.

Somehow, they'd ended up in the same all-hours cafeteria, her coming in as he deliberated where to sit, and Clint had turned around, noticed her, gone over, and offered to fetch hot chocolate while she got them seats.

Sharing their space with the other soon led to surreptitious glances, wondering what had brought the other there, what they had dreamed about.

And as usual, Clint was the first one to break the silence, less comfortable with it than she was. "You can't sleep, either. Bad dreams?"

"Yes. You?"

"Uh huh. It's always the same faces, the same river of blood."

"A _river_ of blood?"

She hadn't been as familiar with American colloquialisms then, having only been in the country just shy of a year, and so he explained, "Not literally. Just... blood everywhere."

"Ah, I dream about that, too. There are many dead in my past. Many debts that I owe."

Her new version of that metaphor involved 'red in her ledger,' but Clint knew that she'd been trying it out almost as long as he'd known her, attempting to find the one that _fit_.

"Did you want to talk about it?"

And she told him about São Paulo that evening, and he related a slightly humorous (whoever says gallows humor isn't funny is lying...or has never been in a situation bad enough to merit it) story from when he had been with the circus, to calm things down enough, remove the darkness from the situation, so that they could go back to sleep.

They walked back to their quarters together, parting when he needed to go down the men's hall.

And the next morning, they still met up to spar, and it didn't change anything, although he could tell that they were both holding their breath, anticipating that something would have changed between them, because they'd shown weakness.

Maybe with someone else, it would have been like that, but with Natasha and Clint, it wasn't.

For them, moving together was always straightforward.

So they fell back into step behind Captain America, as easy as breathing.

In the Quinjet, he rushed through his pre-flight checklist, and she sat at his side, assisting him whenever it was needed.

And he spared a quick second to smile at her before facing front again, just in time to see the giant bug-like aliens on flying scooters make their grand appearance.

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In the shawarma restaurant after Loki was squared away, Clint put his foot on Natasha's chair, his knee aching.

He was getting too old for this shit, he thought.

But they were all alive, and they'd saved the day, and when he hiked his leg slowly, painfully, up onto her chair, Natasha had smiled beatifically at him. He wouldn't have thought that all-out street war would be her kind of fight, but she definitely appeared to have enjoyed herself.

If she hadn't, she was hiding it well. The general mood was optimistic, all the others smiling tiredly.

So he figured that he could think about all that later. He wasn't too old for a bit of relaxation, really.

And any decisions that he made, he would make after he talked them over with her.

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